I began to like Cluj from the moment I have seen it for the first time, when, after my opinion, it presented as an appealing, rather than towering city, like all the metropolis leave the impression, giving you the opportunity to discover it house to house, street to street, as if you would communicate with history, with those people that along the centuries have put their hands, soul and money to build this saucy Transylvanian city. Now I was being in a “over century affinity” and this thing was making me happy. I was trying to see those people that inhabited this city, how they behaved, how they were, how good, knowing that there the decision of assassinating Horea (today, a street name), Novac (whose torture wall still lasts) was taken. There were also bad people, but I believe that a lot were in pain from the sufferings of their heroes. Today people from Cluj are superior, they feel and understand each other better, and for their “intelligence” people are talking for a long time. From my getting off the train in the few lighted station this thoughts “grounded” me (this was also a kind of a psychic repression imposed to the whole people from the country through the missing of the street lights), in a city that is even less lighted. With a small luggage in this coldness I felt the need to “step” fast enough so that my feet won’t freeze. The city was waking up, but still the railways were empty enough. On the left side of “Horea” street, an armored car was patrolling. On the bridge over the “Somes” River the railways were going down the street with “bunches” in front of the door. The working Cluj was going on duty. Getting on the center of the city a little before 6 o’clock I did not find a door opened. A sign of fear? I don’t know, but there was nobody to offer you a tea, a coffee, a worm croissant, in such town not only that it was being unpleasant, inhospitable, it more looked like a sort of repugnance. The coldness “loved me” with a constancy to be envied. Since eight o’clock last night I was not able to feel the worm. I began to visit the graveyards with no dead men in it, the bread and sorrow graveyards with rests of candles. With the lamp on my hand in the full center of Cluj, I was reading the advertising, the imputes, the agony written in despair of the ones that have lost all they had worthful in this world at the so soon passed revolution. They mourned their sons, husbands, parents, brothers. The sidewalk from the front of the University’s Book Store was half full of crowns, bunches, BREAD, flowers and candles.